


Christening.

by VictoryCandescence



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Babies, Embarrassing Situations, Established Relationship, F/M, Fictionalized Real-Life People, Fluff, Love, Royalty, oh the fluff it will suffocate you
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-09
Updated: 2013-08-09
Packaged: 2017-12-22 23:16:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/919184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VictoryCandescence/pseuds/VictoryCandescence
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Martin accompanies Theresa on a visit to an old friend’s to celebrate the happy occasion of their new baby’s christening. A few rather unexpected things happen along the way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Christening.

**Author's Note:**

> Or: In which I pretend to know anything at all about European monarchy and general political high-society by dint of cursory Googling and dipping into Wikipedia. Apologies for all inaccuracies, of which I’m sure there are many. (Oh, and that little matter that’s up-in-the-air about Martin’s new job? Let’s just gloss over that for now in favor of the status quo.)
> 
> I don't know where this came from, but enjoy it all the same.

_Christen (v.)_

_1\. To receive into the Christian church by baptism._

_2\. To name and dedicate._

_3\. To make use of for the first time._

 

 

\---

 

 

 

 

Theresa is waiting for him in the lobby, and the mere sight of her is like an oasis for Martin. She looks up and her face brightens when she sees him. It never fails to make his heart pound out an extra beat.

“Sorry I’m late,” he says, shifting the garment bag on his shoulder and adjusting his grip on his rolling case. “You didn’t have to wait up for me.”

“Don’t apologise,” she says, pressing a kiss to his lips. Then another, and a third before she pulls herself away. “I’m glad you are here now. I think I was too excited to sleep anyway.”

“About the party?” Martin asks.

“About seeing you,” Theresa answers, and gives him another kiss like she’s stealing an extra biscuit from a tray. Martin feels his face go hot. Before he can protest, she takes the garment bag from him and leads him by his now free hand to the lifts.

The room is on the topmost floor of the hotel. It’s enormous; the bathroom alone is far larger than his entire attic. As he drops himself onto the expansive bed and begins to un-knot his shoes, he smiles at how he’s almost used to staying in rooms like these now.

        

_One time, Carolyn somehow managed to comp them rooms at a much nicer hotel than usual during a layover in Ibiza. It happened to be the same hotel he and Theresa had stayed in during a short holiday a few months prior._

_“Wow!” said Arthur on their entrance into the lush, airy lobby. “I bet the rooms here have huge screen tellies and video game systems and all sorts of brilliant fancy stuff!”_

_“I don’t know about video games,” Martin said, smiling at Arthur’s incandescent excitement. “I can tell you the grand presidential suite in this hotel has a Jacuzzi in the master bath.”_

_“Neat!” Arthur had said. “You’d think presidents would be too serious for bubbly baths.”_

_“Yes, well I’m sure they need to relieve their tension somehow,” said Douglas, coming up behind them. “And may I ask how you know this, being neither a president or particularly grand? With deference to your – as you have reminded me time and again – not-insignificant rank as a Captain, of course.”_

_Martin’s cheeks began to glow. “Because I stayed there,” he said primly._

_“With a certain member of foreign royalty, I’m assuming?”_

_“Oh! The Princess, right,” said Arthur, and then started to giggle. “Skip, what were you doing taking bubble baths with –”_

_“All right!” Martin shouted, rather louder than he should have in the lobby of a luxury hotel. “Okay. Nevermind, forget I said anything.”_

_Arthur’s mouth snapped shut, but he was still smiling._

_“I was just going to ask if she got bored waiting for you to finish. Usually bubble baths take an awfully long time if you do them right.”_

_“Arthur, pure heart,” Douglas said, “She probably went first.”_

_Martin was impressed with how well Douglas kept his face straight, even as he felt his own grow even redder._

_“Oh, that makes sense,” conceded Arthur, nodding astutely. “Unless it was big enough for both of you at the same time. You should’ve done that instead, Skip!”_

_“I’ll keep that in mind for next time,” Martin managed to sputter. Douglas gave up and started guffawing as Arthur nudged at him._

_“What’s all this then?” said Carolyn, bustling back from the concierge. “Would it pain you three to stop behaving like a group of schoolboys for ten minutes?”_

_“Do we have bubblers in our baths, Mum? Only Martin said that they have them in the suite here, and I was just wondering.”_

_She shot Martin a pointed look, her eyebrow arching pronouncedly._

_“I’m going to choke one day,” Martin said, wilting as Douglas let out a fresh peal of laughter. “From the sheer dizzying height of my own mortification.”_

_Still, he had to admit, it was a very good memory: Theresa’s soft, silky-wet skin against his under the clouds of suds. And the embarrassment was worth the implied brag, especially when Douglas clapped him on the shoulder and winked, still laughing quietly and shaking his head._

 

This room is smaller than the one in Ibiza of course, but no less posh. Martin finds he hardly cares, however. At the present moment, all he wants is a bed beneath his back and a princess tucked into his side. He kicks off his shoes and flops back on the bed, letting out a groan of relief and closing his eyes. He hears a bit of rustling, then the mattress dips and he feels a weight settle over him. He opens his eyes to find Theresa laying on top of him like a blanket, hands folded on his chest and her chin resting on them, looking at him with a cheshire smile. Martin brings his hands up to wrap around her and discovers she now has on nothing save her underthings.

“Why don’t you match what I’m wearing?” she suggests.

Martin thinks it is a very good suggestion, and carries it out hastily.

Soon they are curled up into each other, Martin in his baggy grey pants and Theresa in her black knickers and a purple bra. Martin trails small kisses along her neck and down her shoulder as she lets her hand stroke up and down his side.

“I’m nervous about tomorrow,” he says.

“You’re always nervous,” she says. “You don’t have a reason to be. We’ve been to parties with Will and Kate before. They’re dear friends of mine.”

“I know. But last time I upset a tray of crudités trying to get out of the way for that Chinese dignitary.”

“Yes, but they cleaned it up in just a few minutes, and remember how lucky you were that it didn’t get on the carpet?”

“Everyone knew it was me, though. I had to hide on the veranda for the rest of the night.”  

“I hid with you,” she says. “The view was lovely.”

Martin props himself up on an elbow. “How do you do that?” he asked.

“Do what?”

“Make me feel better.”

Theresa shrugs. “Things aren’t always as bad as you recall them. Martin, these people are just that, people. You think the rest of them never make mistakes? Carl once lit Silvia’s dress on fire at a charity gala in Gothenburg. Magrethe told me a story about when she was still princess: she was at a luncheon in Paris and bled through her dress onto an antique sofa.”

Hearing Theresa refer to the King and Queen of Sweden and the Queen of Denmark by only their given names is strangely enough a comfort, and hearing of their own accidents even more so. At least he hasn’t ruined upholstery or set anyone on fire. Yet.   

“Besides,” Theresa continues, “These things are usually so dreadfully boring that we could all use a bit of excitement to gossip about, no?”

Martin smiles in spite of himself.

“Is that why you tote me along? Gossip fodder?”

“Of course,” she says. “Haven’t you heard the scandalous whisperings? Princess Theresa and her dashing ginger pilot.” Martin giggles at the thought of anyone finding him dashing. She adopts an affected accent, like a stodgy society lady. “He’s a captain, you know. She keeps bringing him around. He must be remarkable.”

“You’re making all that up,” he laughs.

“Am I?” she says, wiggling her eyebrows.   

“I don’t know, but I’m in bed with you and you haven’t left yet, so I must be doing something right.”

“You’d be doing better if you kissed me,” Theresa informs him, leaning up to brush her lips against his. They snog lazily, soon realising they’re both too tired to carry it any further. It’s bliss anyway, Martin thinks, falling asleep on soft pillows under thick, silky sheets, Theresa breathing in little contented huffs against his shoulder. She always falls asleep the same way, pressed up tight to him, no matter whether they’re in an oversized bed like this or his narrow single bed back in Fitton. For some reason it’s a comforting fact, and he falls asleep much faster than he thought he’d be able to, his anxieties forgotten for the moment.

 

\---

 

The suit he’s brought for the party is one Theresa had fitted just for him. It’s a lovely deep navy blue with a matching waistcoat, that she’d helped him pair with a midnight-coloured tie and a dove-grey shirt. He now has two bespoke suits and a tuxedo that she’s given him. When he’d stammered his gratitude and insisted each time he couldn’t accept them as gifts, she’d merely brushed off his weak refusals with a wave of her hand.

“Think of them as uniforms, then,” she had said teasingly. He didn’t know if that made him feel better or worse.

What he did know was that it made him feel incredibly flattered when he’d caught Theresa staring at his bum across a crowded ballroom at a celebration for the wedding of a Brazilian diplomat, the first night he’d worn the tuxedo. She’d blushed, then grinned and looked away, and Martin felt ten feet tall for the rest of the night, even though he had to go up on tiptoe every time he kissed Theresa in her towering high heels. And he felt proud every time Theresa would introduce him as Captain Martin Crieff, and whoever’s hand he was shaking would give him an approving little nod. He hadn’t even asked her to introduce him that way – didn’t even think it mattered, not if he was on the arm of a princess. But she did, and he couldn’t help but fall deeper in love with her for it.  

 

\---

        

“You didn’t have to bring anything,” Theresa says. “That basket is from my family.” She points to a very large wicker thing filled with silver rattles and teethers and posh little outfits, done up in shining cellophane and lace bows.

Martin’s package is hand-wrapped, simple yet precise and very neat, though obviously not done in a boutique or by a professional decorator. Martin places it on the table with the rest of the gifts. Next to the overflowing baskets and towers of boxes and cascading bows in every shade of blue, the little box somehow does not disappear; it stands out because, not in spite, of its humbleness. Theresa wraps her arm around his and leans in to kiss him on the cheek.

“You are very sweet,” she says. Martin just shrugs, but he’s smiling indelibly.

A few minutes later, Kate and Will enter. Kate has the baby prince tucked up against her shoulder. They’ve changed the baby out of the yards of ornate ivory fabric that were the traditional Christening gown; now he is wearing a darling little blue and grey romper, and even though it is very small, Martin can tell it is quite finer than anything he had or would ever own.

Will thanks everyone for coming, for being so generous with their gifts and time to celebrate George’s special day. It strikes Martin that he sounds like any other proud dad would. He looks over at Theresa; she has her hands clasped near her heart, and a wiggly little smile on her face. The baby prince mewls and yawns as Kate says a few words, and Theresa makes a cooing noise. It’s rather amusing to Martin. As far as he knows, the youngest person in her life is Maxi, and Theresa certainly doesn’t coo over anything he does. Babies must inspire her adoration, he supposes, because they can’t yet be cheeky and talk back.

George is put into a fancy pram, and the guests file into another room to sit down to lunch. Martin makes it through without spilling anything on himself or anyone else, and even strikes up a conversation about airport construction with the man next to him, which Theresa later informs him is the King of Cambodia. Martin balks, and Theresa giggles.

“See?” she says, and squeezes his thigh beneath the table.

They move from the dining room back into the more informal sitting room for coffee and dessert. Kate and Will move around the room, pushing the baby along in his pram flanked by nannies so that he can be fawned over by family and friends and royals and dignitaries. Theresa greets the Queen – the _Queen_ – with a kiss on each cheek, and Martin is sure the glowing of his face can be seen from high altitude when she smiles at him and shakes his hand. He stammers a hello-pleased-to-meet-you and keeps his mouth firmly shut beyond that, lest his foot get lodged in it.  

 

\---

 

Martin finds a free place on a sofa and sits down, a bit numb from the tension of trying to appear at ease. He sips at his coffee and stays quiet as he watches Theresa have a bright conversation with Pippa, Kate’s sister. Theresa’s just met her today, but the way she keeps the conversation flowing easily makes it seem as if they’re old friends. Martin marvels at her, and feels like a sop when she catches him staring. She just smiles and comes to sit near him.

Soon after, the pram finds its way over where they are. Kate and Will take seats near them, and Theresa is up, kissing them both hello and chirping congratulations.

Theresa has known Will for a long time, Martin knows. They were at uni together, and before that, they used to bump into each other at charity functions and the sorts of private retreats royals usually frequent. According to her, it’s not any easier being an awkward teenager with famous and important parents, and in some ways far more difficult.

 

_(Martin’s head had filled with an image of a fourteen-year-old Theresa with un-tamable hair and wires wrapped around her teeth, outside a bustling ballroom in the quieter corridor with her nose buried in an airplane manual. It is charming in a way that makes his heart ache._

_Would she have been his friend if they’d somehow met back then?_

_He envisions her finding him in the courtyard of his school building, staring at the fragments of his Airfix model, now only shining shards of plastic littered on the concrete. He had been so proud of it. But the boys had mocked him, stolen it to play a game of keep-away that ended with a violent kamikaze dive-bombing and, if that wasn’t enough, subsequent stomping with trainers and boots and proclamations that only sissy wankers sit in by themselves and build models._

_No._

_It’s better that she never have seen that._

_But what would he have done if Theresa-as-a-girl had come up and hugged him as he fought back tears, held his hands and told him they would build and paint a new one together? If he’d had someone to talk to about planes and flying who was as excited about it as he was, who would have walked right up to his bullies and laid them in their places without even raising a finger?_

_What could he have done but love her as much as he does now, only sooner.)_

 

Theresa is bent over the pram now, cooing and fussing and speaking to the baby in a babble that is equal parts English, German, and words of her own invention. She turns her face back up to Martin, and something about her glows. It’s incredibly fetching.

“Would you like to say hello, Martin?” she asks.

He glances at Kate as if in permission, and she nods, grinning. Martin bends over the pram. The tiny prince is laid on a plush blue blanket, eyes closed and little hands and feet gyrating lazily.

“Hello,” Martin says, his voice very soft. George opens his eyes and peers at him curiously. He reaches out and makes little grabby gestures with his miniscule fingers.

“I think he likes you,” Kate says, smiling.

Martin looks up. “Really?”

Just then he hears a disproportionately loud burping noise, and the baby spouts a veritable geyser of spit-up across Martin’s face and the front of his suit.

“Oh yes,” Will says, visibly fighting back laughter. “If that’s any sign, I daresay he considers you family.”

Theresa and Kate look horrified for half a second, before they both burst out laughing. George looks pleased with his handiwork, burbling contentedly at the mess he’s made of Martin. He, on the other hand, somehow remains completely clean.

“You’ve got impeccable aim, little prince,” Martin informs the baby, taking his handkerchief from his pocket and wiping his face. Will signals a nanny, who hands Martin a wet cloth to clean himself with.

“You can retire that tie, then, Martin,” he says. “Better yet, you might get a small fortune for it on eBay.”

Martin begins to laugh then, too. He spends the rest of the time there tieless and damp-shirted, and laughing easily with princes and princesses – though it seems much more like friends now.

It is a firm rule of Martin’s that he not speak about anything to do directly with aviation at any function he attends with Theresa, lest he get too excited, but this time it’s Will who brings up piloting, and they have a rather enjoyable chat about military aircraft. As it turns out, Kate’s parents were flight attendants, and her father even worked as a dispatcher for British Airways. Martin can’t believe how easy the conversation goes – he almost forgets who he’s talking to, in a good way.

This is his life, he realises. He lives in an attic in Fitton and travels around the world as a hobby and his girlfriend is literally royalty. He’s sitting inside a mansion in London and the future King of England just threw up on him.

_This_ is his life.

Martin reaches for Theresa’s hand, but she’s already reaching for his, and they collide in a tangle of fingers between them on the cushion of the settee. When Kate and Will cart the baby away to converse with others, Martin leans over and brushes aside Theresa’s hair.

“I love you,” he whispers low into her ear. She turns her head slowly to look into his eyes. She runs a finger tenderly along the ridge of his jaw.

“I love you too,” she says, and her smile is as radiant as his heart feels.

 

\---

 

After the party, they head back to their hotel. Martin changes into baby-vomit-free casual clothes, and wanders out onto the balcony while Theresa changes in the other room.

After a while, she finds him.

“Hiding on the veranda again?” she asks. She’s wearing a soft blue jumper and jeans, and if Martin could choose to see her in any of the clothes she owns, including all the couture dresses and bespoke coats and custom-tailored shirts, it would be this.

“Just – thinking,” he says.

“What are you thinking about?” She leans on the railing, looking out in the same direction he is. London is fading from the bright blue-grey of day into the orange dusk of sunset, the lights of the city glowing brighter with each passing minute. A plane arcs across the skyline in the distance. Martin can tell it’s a Boeing 747 by the distribution of its tiny, blinking lights, and that it’s leaving Heathrow for somewhere south, by the direction it’s heading in.

“I was thinking about how lucky your kids are going to be, if you have them one day.”

She shrugs. “You can do much worse than being born into the royal line of Liechtenstein.”

“You certainly can,” Martin agrees, looking down and stubbing the toe of his shoe against the base of the railing. “Being born to Martin Crieff, for instance.”

Theresa’s posture changes, and out of the corner of his eye Martin sees her take what he privately calls her Battle Stance. It’s the way she holds her shoulders and juts out her hip when she’s about to argue or make a point, or use the Princess Voice.

“I’m insulted,” she informs him.

Martin starts and whips his head up. “You’re insulted? Why would _you_ be insulted by _my_ self-deprecation?”

“Did it occur to you that I perhaps hate with my whole heart when the man I love proclaims himself unworthy and prone to failure?”

“It’s only the truth,” Martin says quietly. But Theresa continues, the timbre of her voice deepening.

“And did it occur to you that I might not want anyone, including himself, to disrespect the man I’ve thought of as a prospective father of the children whom you have said would be so lucky to have me as a mother?”

“I – wait. What?”

“And does it not make sense to you that if, as you say, my children would be lucky to have me as a mother, my husband would be doubly lucky to have me as a wife?”

“I – suppose?” Martin says. “Theresa, what –”

But before he can say anything further, Theresa swiftly yet gracefully gathers him into a kiss. Her mouth is warm against his, her fingers brushing up into his hair, holding him to her. He melts into it, feeling a bright tingle in all the places along his front that she is pressed to, radiating from the epicentre of her soft lips and clever tongue.

He’s a little dizzy with it when she finally pulls away, anchoring himself from floating away with his hands solid on her hips.

“Theresa, did you just say what I think you said?

“What did I say?” Her face is a picture of blank innocence.

“It sounded like – like you want _me_ to be. Er. Your...your husband.”

Martin’s hands are shaking. Theresa merely smiles.

“It did sound like that, didn’t it?”

“Well – d-do you?” Martin can feel his face heating and his palms start to sweat.

“Do I what?”

Martin bites his lip, half in frustration, half in fear. He swallows hard, his heart racing so fast his pulse feels like a hum.

“Do you want me to be your husband?”

Theresa’s face lights up.

“Yes,” she says. “I was wondering when you’d ask.”

Of all the reactions Martin could have had at that moment, apparently the one that wins out is a fit of sudden, hysterical laughter. He laughs, and tries to catch his breath, and laughs some more, as Theresa holds him round the middle, laughing at him and with him, and asking, “What’s so funny?”

“You,” Martin yelps. _“You!”_ He kisses her, little pecks that land on her nose and cheeks and eyebrows and chin, and with each he pushes her back into the room until he’s able to tackle her onto the bed. They both lay there for a moment looking at each other, breathless with laughter. Martin is still shaking.

“Did you just trick me into proposing to you?” Martin says.

“‘Trick’ is such a deceitful word,” Theresa protests. “I...subliminally encouraged you.”

“Well, I am encouraged,” he says, kissing her again before he stops a bit abruptly and props himself up on his arms.

“What?” Theresa asks.

“I don’t have a ring for you,” he says. “I didn’t even get down on my knee.”

Theresa looks completely unperturbed.

“How about,” she says, pulling him back down by the collar, “You get down on your knees now, and we can worry about a ring later?”

Martin adds a few deep breaths to the trembling he’s been doing. Then he kisses her one last time before sliding off the edge of the bed to his knees, dragging her forward, making short work of stripping her out of her jeans and pressing his face between her legs.

Did he say that this was his favorite outfit to see her in?

He must’ve meant ‘out of’. A simple mistake. But then again, everyone makes them.

 

\---

 

After, they lay on the disheveled duvet, catching their breath and letting their heartbeats thrum back to normal. Martin fiddles with his hands; Theresa fiddles with Martin. It’s easy and quiet and relaxed, and such a polar opposite from the nervousness and stress of this afternoon that Martin can hardly believe it’s still the same day.

Theresa rolls over onto her back and stretches like a cat. When she is still again, Martin places in the valley between her breasts his father’s signet ring.

“What is this?” she asks, picking it up and examining it. “Your father’s ring?”

“I want you to wear it. Just – until we get you a proper one. You deserve something much better than this tarnished old thing.”

Martin takes it from her, finds her left hand and slides it on. Since he usually wears it on his pinky, it winds up fitting Theresa’s ring finger almost perfectly. She looks at it, the chunk of a thing on her delicate, manicured hand held above her. Then she places her hand flat over her heart and covers it with the other, turning to Martin.

“I love it,” she says. “I would wear it always.”

“R-really?” Martin says, surprised at the gravity of her tone. “You know it’s been through a goose, right?” She smiles, but nods solemnly.

“This means very much to you, I know. You never take it off. For you to let me wear it is an honor to me.”

“An honor?”

“Yes, you know,” Theresa says, sitting up and leaning over him. “It’s like receiving a medal from the Lord High Archduke Martin of Crieffstonia.”

Martin groans and smothers himself with a pillow as Theresa bursts out laughing.

“Are you _sure_ you want to marry _me?”_ he asks from under the pillow.

“Do I ever make decisions I am not completely sure of?”

Martin has to admit, she doesn’t. It’s one of her best qualities, and the one that most often balances him out, painfully indecisive as he is sometimes.

“Fine, but I’m wearing my Wobbly Stick of Liechtenstein for the ceremony.”

“You must!” she says, sitting straight up and whipping the pillow away. “All decorations must be worn when marrying a Princess of Liechtenstein. It’s proper protocol!” Then she bops him over the head with the pillow again.

In retaliation, he rolls her over and blows raspberries on her stomach until she’s sobbing with laughter. It’s almost sickening, he thinks, how happy he is at this moment, how wonderful everything seems. He wonders when the Airbus is going to crash through the roof.

“Don’t do that,” Theresa says, straddling him and pinning his arms against the mattress. He surrenders happily.

“Do what?”

“You get a look on your face everytime you think that just because everything is going well it all has to soon come tumbling down somehow. That’s not how life works, Martin.”

“It’s how my life works,” he says. “I am always prepared to accept the worst.”

“But you must not forget to leave room to accommodate the best.”

She lays down again so that they are side by side once more. It’s completely night now; there’s one small lamp on at the bedside table, and the leaky city light that comes in from the window. Martin catches Theresa’s hand and watches the scuffed gold metal glint in the semi-dark.

“I wear this ring to remind me of my father, but they’re not exactly fond memories. He was a good man, don’t misunderstand. He was just – always concerned with being right, and feeling important, more than he was concerned with how that made the rest of us feel. For a while I wore it because I wanted to be that: infallible and significant. Now I wear it because I don’t want to be that. I don’t need to be. I do what I love, no matter the cost, and it took me a long time to realise that was the thinking that would make my life the happiest.”

“What finally changed your mind?” asks Theresa.

Martin smiles. “You.”

Theresa’s eyes shine in the dim glow of the room.

“How could you even ask if I am sure you are the man I want to marry?”

“Everyone makes mistakes,” Martin says. “Even royalty, so I’ve been told.”

“And yet the world keeps turning,” Theresa says.

She’s got a point, Martin thinks. And then she’s kissing him again, but it feels much too right to ever be considered an error.

 

\---

 

“So,” says Douglas two days later, back on GERTI as they prepare to fly some boring executives to Toronto. “Your friend’s baby’s christening party went well, then?”

“Oh! Oh, yes. As a matter of fact it did. Very nice. He’s adorable.”

“Babies usually are,” Douglas says. Martin relaxes a bit as they take off, but once they’re up in the air, Douglas turns to him again.

“Funny that they held their christening on the same day as the royal christening, no?”

Martin tenses up again. “Coincidence, I expect. Isn’t it the season for it?”

“I was unaware that baptisms went in and out of season.”

“Er,” says Martin, and because he can’t think of a rejoinder, leaves it at that.

“Here’s something funny,” says Douglas, and Martin gets the distinct feeling he really won’t find it so. Douglas scrolls through his phone and turns the screen toward Martin. He glances at it; it’s a photograph accompanying a news story about the baby prince’s christening, published yesterday. In it, Kate and Will are walking to their waiting car, pushing the baby along in its pushchair. A close-up of the baby shows him gripping a toy – a bright-coloured stuffed airplane, which he is happily soaking with drool. Martin looks up at Douglas, whose eyebrows are a sine wave of inquisition.

“Interesting choice of toy for the little tot, eh?”

“Well, his dad’s a pilot, no?” Martin points out.

“He _is,_ isn’t he,” says Douglas, in an indulgent tone that is clearly only a pause in his wheedling. “You two must shop in the same place.”

Martin feels his neck go hot beneath his collar. He keeps his eyes fixed out the windshield on the grey sky ahead. “Oh?”

“Yes. That looks like the exact same toy you bought in that department store in Copenhagen two weeks ago. Fancy that.”

“Yes,” Martin says weakly. “Fancy that.”

But the smile Douglas is wearing says he knows everything. Thankfully, his chance to elaborate is interrupted by the entrance of Arthur and Carolyn.

“Teas and Coffees!” Arthur says brightly, offering their respective mugs.

“Oh goodness, it’s blissful quiet in here for once,” sighs Carolyn.

“Quiet?” asks Martin. “They didn’t seem the rowdy sort.”

“Yes, well, one of them is apparently incredibly afraid of flying and whimpered like an injured cat all the way up until his Xanax kicked in, and now he’s singing along to his iPod so far off key he’s inventing new scales. And the other is subconsciously trying to drown him out by snoring so hard I thought his – Martin! Your ring!”

Martin had just set the autopilot to turn and grab his cup of coffee. He looks down at his bare hand.

“Oh, yes.”

“What happened to it?”

“It didn’t get eaten again, did it Skip?” asks Arthur, clearly worried.

“No, no. I didn’t lose it or sell it or anything. I...gave it away.” Martin is having a very hard time keeping his mouth from curling up in a smile. He’d planned on telling them later, but now is as good a time as any.

“To whom did you give away your ring, and why?” Carolyn presses. “You never took the blasted thing off.”

“I gave it – er. Well, I gave it to Theresa.”

He looks round at Douglas and Carolyn. They look more shocked and nervous than he would have expected. Arthur just looks confused.

“Is she going to give it back?” Arthur asks.

“I certainly hope not,” answers Martin. Silence still reigns in the cockpit. He rolls his eyes. “For god’s sake, she said _yes._ ”

It is only then that their faces break into smiles.

“Huh?” Arthur says. And then half a moment later, “OH! Oh right! It’s an engagement ring now! Oh, brilliant, Skip!”

There is clapping and laughing and congratulations, and – surprise of all surprises – Carolyn leans over and plants a kiss on Martin’s cheek that makes him smile even harder. Douglas pounds him heartily on the back, upsetting his hat. They’re hopeless, the both of them, Martin thinks fondly. A basketball team of ex-spouses between them and they’re still excited at the prospect of new love.

“I have to ask,” says Douglas. “With all due respect, Martin – I’ve seen you try to make important phone calls. How did you keep it together long enough to ask _the_ _Princess_ to marry you?”

“Honestly, she sort of mentioned it first, and I just...went with it.” Martin laughs at himself a bit. “I think she knew that if it was going to happen, it had to happen without me having too much time to think about it.”

“She’s good for you Martin,” Carolyn says. Martin is thoroughly surprised, yet again.

“Really? You think so? I know you’re not the fondest of her.”

Carolyn gives him a wry smile. “She pulled one over on me, and a good one too. Anyone that can do that is worth keeping around.” At this, she looks at Douglas, and Martin can swear he sees her actually wink. “Besides, she’s a smart, powerful, self-assured woman. You need as many of those in your life as possible. And if you work as hard at being a good husband as you do at being a good pilot, I daresay you won’t have the troubles we’ve had.”

Martin’s face is glowing, he knows it, but for once he doesn’t care.

“Do you think you’ll have one of those chocolate fountains at your wedding?” asks Arthur. “Because if you do, I really, really hope I’m invited.”

“Of course you’re invited,” Martin says. “All of you. You’re my family.”

The look of relief on Arthur’s face, and the way Carolyn and Douglas’s expressions soften in the wake of his sentiment makes Martin feel unaccountably embarrassed. He clears his throat. “As – as for wedding planning, I don’t think we’ve quite started yet.”

“Oh, right,” says Arthur. “Well, think about it!”

Martin laughs. “I will, I promise.”

“Oh god,” Douglas says. “ I just thought of something. This is quite a step up from Captain. Are you going to start insisting people refer to you as ‘His Highness?’”

“Douglas, don’t be ridiculous,” Martin scoffs.

Douglas sighs dramatically in relief.

“Besides,” says Martin, giving him a sideways look. “It’s ‘His _Serene_ Highness.’”

Martin doesn’t hear the end of it until they’re flying back to Fitton, and even still when they land Douglas insists on making trumpet-herald sounds, and Arthur and Carolyn bow and curtsey at him as he climbs off GERTI.

He realises joking about it was probably a mistake.

But he can live with that.


End file.
